


My Heart is Buried in Venice

by schmulte



Category: Red White & Royal Blue - Casey McQuiston
Genre: Fluff, Honeymoon, Idiots in Love, M/M, One Shot, firstprince
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-01-20
Packaged: 2021-03-18 19:08:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28872078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/schmulte/pseuds/schmulte
Summary: Yesterday was all fake smiles and shaking hands and kissing babies; the royal honeymoon is no more than a business trip, and just as romantic. The young couple has barely gotten a moment to themselves since the wedding, their only respite being crashing into the same bed every night and waking up wrapped in each other's arms while the alarm blares. Today, though, is their last day here before they move on to Rome-a free day with no responsibilities or schedules or cameras. Just Alex and Henry.
Relationships: Alex Claremont-Diaz/Henry Fox-Mountchristen-Windsor
Comments: 12
Kudos: 116





	My Heart is Buried in Venice

Mornings in Venice are the eighth wonder of Alex's world. The sunrise is painted across the wide expanse of sky, always lit up in hues of subdued pinks and purples and blues. The air smells like the salt of the ocean and the larks sing from the tops of tall buildings and the heads of gargoyles. He can see St Mark's Basilica from the balcony of the hotel room, the crest of the domes looking like the tops of umbrellas from this high up. 

Yesterday was all fake smiles and shaking hands and kissing babies; the royal honeymoon is no more than a business trip, and just as romantic. The young couple has barely gotten a moment to themselves since the wedding, their only respite being crashing into the same bed every night and waking up wrapped in each other's arms while the alarm blares. Today, though, is their last day here before they move on to Rome-a free day with no responsibilities or schedules or cameras. Just Alex and Henry.

Henry's sleeping form stirs beneath the crisp white blankets of the hotel bed. His skin is pink as the sunrise and shiny with aloe vera; he had said the Italian sun doesn't agree with him, but Alex disagrees. His hair is shades lighter, almost white atop his head, and his smile is wider in the sunshine. His eyes shine a brilliant blue and he looks bright and real and _alive_ , even with burned skin and sore feet. He sleeps more soundly here, too, they both do. 

Alex lets Henry sleep, watching the sun rise over the crests of green hills with a throw around his shoulders. The early morning air is chilled- it reminds him of sunrises in Texas, the brief cool breezes before the sun is up and blazing in the sky. The crickets sound the same when they chirp here, but maybe they were quieter in Texas. 

He feels Henry at his side before he sees him and instinctively rests his head on his shoulder while taking his mug of coffee from his husband's hands. It's one of those small domestic things married life brings; simple routines that fall naturally into place. The mug is warm in Alex's hands and Henry is even warmer, the heat radiating off his skin. Alex's cheek is sticky from the aloe, but he can hardly be bothered to care. Not when Henry is placing a kiss to the crown of his curls and sliding a hand to the small of his back. The ring on Henry's finger glints in the light as he raises his mug to his lips, and the weight on Alex's left hand feels more prominent.

"Pretty bird songs," Alex comments. 

Henry hums and squints at the purple clouds. " _It was the lark, the herald of the morn, no nightingale. Look, love, what envious streaks do lace the severing clouds in yonder east. Night's candles are burnt out, and jocund day stands tiptoe on the misty mountain tops."_

"Only you would quote Shakespeare from memory at six in the morning."

Henry's early morning smile dawns, lopsided and relaxed. A private smile, one reserved only for Alex, and only for moments like this. "Don't pretend you don't love it." Alex rolls his eyes with a "mm", but his unfazed act is melted away by Henry's grip around his waist, pulling him closer to his side. "What would you like to do today, love? Both our schedules are clear and we don't leave until eight tonight."

"Well, for starters I have _certain plans_ for us now that I have you all to myself." His fingers creep up to trace along the morning stubble of Henry's jaw, and thinks if his face weren't already pink from sunburn, they certainly would be now. Henry laughs from his chest, another secret just for Alex. 

"I see. And do you plan on keeping me in bed all day?"

"Absolutely not. You might have been here a hundred times, but I haven't. We're going to be proper tourists."

"Mm. Does that mean I have to wear cargo shorts?"

Alex smirks and presses a kiss to his collarbone. "And hide that ass? No way."

He does, however, manage to persuade Henry into a bright blue Hawaiian shirt and a 'I <3 Venice' baseball cap; he makes it worse for himself when he unironically clips a fanny pack through his belt.

"Pickpockets are real, Alex," he grumbles. "It's a perfectly sensible way to carry things."

"What _things_ do you have to carry? Travel sized lube?" That earns Alex a shove, which turns into a wrestling match, which turns into a flurry of hands and skin that has Henry putting his Hawaiian shirt back on inside out.

They do every cheesy tourist trap they can- they take a gondola ride (that Henry falls out of and pulls Alex along with him when he laughs), eat gelato, walk the Rialto bridge and eat fresh fruit from the market, take every tour they can of churches and old buildings. At sunset they rest at the Piazza San Marco and Alex tries fruitlessly to wipe pastry crumbs from his chinos. Henry reclines in his seat, arm around Alex's shoulder, content with the world and completely at ease for once. 

"What are you thinking about?" Alex prods. 

Henry hums. "How much I want to escape the PPOs and stay here forever. Hide in our hotel room with its view of the basilica and never leave our bed. Eat pastries all day."

"You'd get fat."

"You'd love me anyway."

"True. That, and I'm stuck with you forever. Til death do us part, baby."

A young man across the plaza takes a guitar out of its case. Henry stands, offering a polite hand to Alex, smiling at the raised eyebrow and quizzical look on his face. 

"Dance with me."

"Who are you and what have you done with Henry?"

Henry only grins in response and pulls Alex to his feet. He guides their hands- his on Alex's waist, Alex's on his shoulder, both of their free hands clasped together. He leans forward and nuzzles his nose into the crook of Alex's shoulder, inhaling the scent of his cologne and the Venetian air. 

"You know what I want to do?" Alex asks. 

"Hm?"

"I want to leave our mark. Somewhere in the city."

Henry lifts his head, a twinkle in his eyes. "That can be arranged."

"First, I wanna finish our dance."

"Happily."

They sway in the middle of the square, bathed in the light of the Venetian sunset, unaware and uncaring of the few cameras that flash around them. They'll deal with the press tomorrow; for now, it's just the two of them, Henry humming the lyrics the young man is singing in Alex's ear.

_Come rest your bones next to me_

_and toss all your thoughts to the sea_

_I'll pull up each of our anchors_

_so we can get lost, you and me_

The first dance at their wedding was rehearsed. Hours and hours spent in a dance studio with an angry elderly Russian woman swatting at their ankles with a cane and a song the both of them hate. It was romantic but mechanical; it wasn't a fitting first dance for the same people who wrote things like _Should I tell you that when we're apart, your body comes back to me in dreams?_ and _Sweetheart, you're proof too._

This is their real first dance. This, the simple swaying to the faint sound of acoustic guitar, in a square in Venice, in the cool dusk air. The two of them, Henry in a ridiculous shirt and a fanny pack, wrapped in their own little world. This is the Henry Alex married- this Henry, who quotes Shakespeare before the sun is up and smiles like no one is watching, this is the Henry that Alex wants to remember holding him during their first dance as a married couple. 

_My heart is buried in Venice_

_Hidden beneath all my worries and doubts_

_My heart is buried in Venice_

_Waiting for someone to take it home_

Alex buys a simple lock and a sharpie from a corner store. They run, giggling like schoolgirls, hand in hand to the Ponte Dei Scalzi bridge, and they argue over the right spot. Henry eventually gives in to Alex's demands, because how can he refuse with that face, and locks it in a spot toward the back, the scribble of _Alex + Henry_ facing outward. They both smile when they see a larger lock with _History, huh?_ written across the front.

They've made history. They've ingrained themselves in textbooks and internet archives and public art projects; Americans and Brits alike will remember them for years to come. They've left their mark on history for all the world to see. The world is privy to every trace of their story; their love is public domain. But not the lock. 

This mark is just for them.


End file.
